


Hell is Other People

by DNAchemLia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, surprise crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DNAchemLia/pseuds/DNAchemLia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another take on how Sherlock "faked" his death and the aftermath. Two-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU, post _The Reichenbach Fall_
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. This is my first time writing in this fandom, so I apologize for any glaring mistakes I might inadvertently have made. Some mistakes, however were made on purpose ;) Dialogue at the end of chapter one is from _The Reichenbach Fall_. Chapter two contains some small bits of dialogue from _The Hounds of Baskerville_ and _The Empty Hearse_. No infringement intended. Thanks to thecookiemomma for the beta, and a special thank you to Ariane DeVere on LJ for posting the transcripts which were used in writing this story.

Chapter 1

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days, eight hours and forty minutes. The time that had passed with excruciating slowness since he, John Watson, had watched Sherlock Holmes plummet to his death from atop St. Bart's hospital. A few minutes less that time since he had seen Sherlock's shattered body lying on the sidewalk, surrounded by nurses and doctors, when he had grabbed a wrist and detected no pulse beneath his trembling fingers. A couple of hours less since he had seen that same body, pale and still, laid out on a slab in the mortuary, covered by a sheet that a red-eyed Molly Hooper had carefully held away from his face so John could make a formal identification as Lestrade looked on.

John rubbed a hand over his own face, the memory of the moment burned in his mind forever. He had studied that face, the normally pale skin a shade of sickly grey, those icy blue-green eyes hidden by closed lids. Damp hair pulled back to reveal the broken skull beneath, the blood washed away to clearly show the devastating injury that had cut short the life of the man who had saved John's life in so many ways, but had tragically ended his own.

He glanced at the discarded paper lying on the floor near his feet. Twenty-one days, two hours since the first newspaper declaring the consulting detective a fraud had hit the streets. Ten minutes less since the first reporters had banged on the door of 221B, demanding their questions to be answered. John had ignored them all, lost in his own agony. Despite Sherlock's last words, he could never believe that the man was anything less than he appeared to be. He had seen Sherlock's brilliance first hand and too many times to wave it away with a few desperate words. He knew Sherlock was trying to protect him and he could guess it had something to do with Moriarty (who _was_ real, John would swear to that, too), but he didn't know exactly what that threat had been...or if it still existed.

Eighteen days since the funeral. Closed-casket, of course, and private. Only he, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft had been in attendance. The service was brief, as no one could bring themselves to speak words of comfort they would never feel or believe. John had watched as the coffin had been lowered into a grave at the outer edge of the churchyard: Sherlock was to remain isolated in death as he had been, up until the last two years, in life.

Making a decision, John levered himself to his feet and headed for the door, only to be met by Mrs. Hudson, tea tray in hand. She stammered a bit when she saw his expression.

"I… I thought you could do with a nice cuppa," she supplied when he stared at her, a silent question in his expression. "Please don't let it grow cold this time?"

"Sorry. Going out."

"Would you like… Would you like some company?"

John took a moment to study her and winced inwardly. Her usual perkiness and flippancy was gone and she seemed to have gained several years in the past few weeks. He knew that she had to be missing her former tenant, perhaps as much as John did. It wouldn't hurt to show her a measure of kindness.

"Yeah. Come on, then." She quickly took the tray back to her apartment and grabbed her coat before following John down the stairs and out to the street. The reporters had finally abandoned their quest ten days ago, moving on to the next great scandal. John snorted softly in disgust at the memory as he hailed a cab to take them to the cemetery.

After a stop at the florist's they arrived at the church and slowly made their way through the haphazard rows of stones to the back of the churchyard. A smooth black granite headstone now stood at one end of the grave, the sod that had been used to cover the rectangle of bare earth just starting to blend with the remaining grass. Mrs. Hudson placed the bouquet she had bought at the foot of the stone and they stood back, staring down at the name-just the name, no dates of birth or death-carved into the stone.

Mrs. Hudson startled to babble about the stuff left behind in the flat, how she didn't know what to do with it all and maybe she would give it to a school. Finally she seemed to notice his silence.

"Would you…?"

"I can't go back to the flat again, not at the moment." He took a deep breath, finally admitting to the feeling that had been gnawing at him for days. "I'm angry."

She patted him on the arm. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table, and the noise: firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah."

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes." He closed her eyes and listened to her voice as it started to crack.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

"Yeah, listen. I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay." She took a step away, pulling her arm free from where it had been tucked beneath his own. "I'll leave you alone to, uh...you know."

He could hear her sobs as she walked away and he looked down at the grave. He took another deep breath and checked to make sure she was out of earshot before he finally spoke.

"You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um...there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human...human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so...There. "

He let out a shuddering breath, glanced over his shoulder again and stepped up to the tombstone, resting the tips of his fingers on the smooth surface.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took another breath, feeling the tears burning his eyes. "Okay." He turned to walk away but before he passed the end of the grave he turned around to face the stone again. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't...be...dead," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this." He waited, desperately wanting to hear, just one last time, that rich baritone voice offering some small assurance that the whole thing was a horrible mistake. Finally, after taking a minute to collect himself, he turned and stalked off toward the road.

In a shaded corner of the cemetery, a tall, thin figure dressed in a long coat with the collar flipped up watched the man's retreat. Once he was out of sight he turned to a second figure that was watching him with a calculating gaze. The second man studied him for a moment before he spoke in a slightly mocking voice.

"You want to tell him, don't you? Sentiment, brother mine, is a weakness we can't afford."

"Don't you think it's time to stop using that appellation, Mycroft? Am am not now, nor have I ever been your _brother_."

"Not in blood, no, but in mindset. And in purpose."

Sherlock smirked. "It still escapes you that I do not share you goals. I never have."

"So you claim, and yet you continue to yield to my requests."

"Only because I've arrived at the conclusion that such actions are a necessity for my well being, and…"

"The well being of your friends?"

"As I told John Watson, I don't have 'friends'."

"You've just got the one. After all these years, you've finally found a person around whom you can lower your guard."

"Not completely."

"No. Not yet. But you do want to remove that barrier, don't you? Not out of necessity, as you had to do with young Dr. Hooper."

"And I still regret that."

Mycroft chuckled. "Her scream when you awoke was quite amusing, you have to admit."

"And loud, but she wouldn't have seen my resurrection if you hadn't been so slow to arrive and provide a reasonable distraction."

"Unfortunate delays, brother mine." Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. "But you are avoiding the question: are you certain that want to tell him now? We could wait until I've managed to get this whole dreadful scandal sorted out and clear your name. I expect it would take no more than...two years."

This time Sherlock _did_ roll his eyes. "I would prefer to tell him sooner rather than later, especially _that_ much later. I am, however, still calculating the scenarios which would result in the least… anxiety."

"For you or for Dr. Watson?"

He ignored the jab. "There is no doubt it would be wise to have a second set of eyes on this mission."

"If he were to join you."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You think he would not?"

"No, I am certain he would, but there are logistics that must be considered. There is also the issue of the mission itself. The lack of verifiable information that we've been able to obtain is… disconcerting. I have a suspicion that Moriarty's network will be much like the mythical hydra: if you manage to lop off one head, two more will grow in its place."

Sherlock smiled. "Then it's a good thing I have plenty of experience with a sword."

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

After seeing Mrs. Hudson to her door, John hailed another taxi to take him to the closest Tube station. Nearly an hour and several connections later he arrived at his stop and took the steps to the surface before walking an additional block to the small flat he had started renting a fortnight ago. It was similar to the lodgings he had used prior to moving to Baker Street, a single room with an adjoining bath and small kitchenette. There wasn’t much to be said for the flat other than it was affordable and relatively quiet...and close to the new job he would begin on Monday.

John hung his jacket on the rack next to the door and proceeded to the kitchen to set the kettle on to boil. While he waited he studied the small space: a single bed and nightstand, with a chair beneath the window and a shabby dresser standing next to the tiny closet opposite the bed. He didn’t need much, he never really had, but it was a far cry from the cluttered chaos of his former residence. Mrs. Hudson had told him that he didn’t need to move, that they would work something out, but he couldn’t stand the thought of living there alone. He had been back many times to sit and think, never staying more than an hour, but today had been the last time. Visiting Sherlock’s grave had been the final nail in the coffin of his old life.

The whistling of the kettle pulled him from his thoughts and he finished the pot of tea, wincing as the memories of Mrs. Hudson’s efforts surfaced. He probably should have thanked her, more than once, when she tried to take care of him over the past three weeks, and even before that. He would have to find some way to thank her for all she’d done for him...all she’d done for the _both_ of them over the years.

He carried his cup over to the chair and sat down, grabbing a book from the basket adjacent to the nightstand. He tried to focus on reading but after several hours and the realization that he hadn’t really absorbed anything he tossed the book back into the basket in disgust. He sat in the fading light for a few more minutes before he rose and carried his cold, still mostly full cup of tea to the sink. After he pour the contents down the drain he stood leaning over the sink, the question that had been swirling around in his brain finally breaking through the surface to be voiced. 

“Why, Sherlock? Why couldn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I seriously doubt you would have believed me.”

John’s heart leaped into his throat and he spun around to find a familiar figure standing only a meter away.

_“Sherlock?”_ he gasped, his voice jumping an octave in shock. “What...how...?”

“I didn’t walk through the wall, if that is what you’re worried about.” He displayed a small set of lock picks in his hand before slipping them into the interior of his coat. “That lock was particularly simple to disengage. You should speak to your landlord about a replacement.”

“You...you’re _alive_?”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“But... I saw you! I saw you jump off that building! I saw you on the ground, the blood...you didn’t have a pulse! I saw you on a slab!”

“Yes, you did, and I apologize for all of that.”

“You…” John surged forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, the same wrist he had tested for signs of life three weeks ago, and had found none. His eyes widened when he felt a slow, steady beat beneath his fingers. With his other hand he reached up and worked his fingers under the mop of dark curls on Sherlock’s head, searching for signs of the fatal injury. The curve of bone beneath the skin was intact and he could detect no evidence of a break in the bone or a tear in the skin. Sherlock silently submitted to the examination with a slight smile on his face.

“This is impossible…”

“Clearly not. As I told you before, John, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be true.”

John took a step back and stared into those oh-so-familiar eyes, alight with mischief. “It...it’s really you.” The smile broadened as Sherlock nodded. John stared at him for half a second more before pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock allowed himself to be held for a few moments before pulling back. John released him, grinning for a moment before the expression vanished and the anger he had felt at the cemetery resurfaced.

“You...you absolute _arse!_ How could you--?”

“Because Moriarty had to be stopped.” Sherlock’s voice took on the lecturing tone that John had heard so many times before. “I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying, if possible--”.

“I don’t care how you faked it--”

“Yes, you do.”

“What?”

“You _do_ care. It’s a puzzle, and you’ve come to _need_ the puzzles, to see them solved, or have a hand in solving them.”

“OK, maybe I do, but what matters more is _why?_ Why did you let me think you were dead? Three weeks, Sherlock! Three _weeks_ I mourned you. I went to your bloody _funeral-_ -”

“Was it nice? Sorry, go on.”

“Damn it, this is not _funny!_ How could you do that? To me? To Mrs. Hudson? To Molly?”

“Molly knew. Well, she found out. Not originally part of the plan but we were forced to improvise when she saw me wake up. Somewhat good timing on my part, though, since she was about to start the post-mortem.”

“Wait. She saw you _wake up_ ? Wake up from _what?_ ”

“From being dead, of course.” He took in John’s shocked expression and continued. “I _was_ dead, John. That wasn’t an illusion. It wasn’t a magic trick. Massive blunt force trauma to the skull and subsequent fatal hemorrhaging. Not quite as quick as I would have preferred, but--”

“What _are_ you?” John whispered as he took a step back, his body stiffening unconsciously into a fighting stance.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “What I am...is a long story.”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, I suppose not. Perhaps you should sit down.”

John slowly moved to the chair and lowered himself into it, his gaze never leaving the other man. After John was seated Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed and leaned over to switch on the light. The low-wattage bulb flickered slightly as it shed its dim light in the small space, giving both men a rather ghostly appearance.

“As I was saying, of the thirteen scenarios I envisioned, most of them were eliminated when Moriarty killed himself. From the limited choices remaining, I chose the simplest one: to comply with his demand.”

“But why? And how did you know that you would...wake up again?”

“As for the why, it was to keep _you_ alive. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty had his...associates ready to kill all of you in a second if he didn’t give the order to stand down or if I didn’t kill myself. Since he could not longer give that order… I had to act fast, so I texted Mycroft before you arrived to let him know what I was going to do. He promised to handle the aftermath.”

“So he knew, too? He knew that the fall wouldn’t...permanently kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“No one. Mycroft and Molly, and the latter only by necessity.”

“So how did he know it wouldn’t kill you?”

“Because we’ve known each other for a very long time.”

“How long?”

“Since before the City of London even existed.”

“But that’s… You’re talking two _thousand_ years! That’s… No. You’re lying to me. I don’t know why, but--”

“I am _not_ lying to you. I am telling you that I am…” He smiled. “I am much older than I look. Even older than Mycroft, actually. Promise me you won’t tell him that.”

“Two thousand _years_ older?”

“Well, you need to add a few centuries to that figure to be a bit more accurate.”

John shook his head. “This is insane. How could you have lived that long?”

“Because, except under very limited circumstances, I _can_ not die. Not permanently.”

“So, what, you’re...immortal?”

“Yes.”

John shook his head again. “That’s impossible. It’s not even improbable, it’s _impossible_!”

“Wait here.” Sherlock rose and walked to the kitchen area before he started rummaging through the drawers and soon extracted a knife. “Is this sharp?”

John’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Just a quick demonstration. Is it sharp?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.” He flipped it so the blade was pointed towards him and carried the knife over to John. “Check it. Make sure I haven’t switched it for a fake blade.”

John gingerly took the knife and examined the blade while keeping an eye on the other man. “It’s real.”

“Good.” He held out his hand and as John reluctantly started to give it to him Sherlock wrapped his own hand around the blade and jerked back, causing the knife to slice his fingers. John immediately dropped the knife and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, sickened by the sight of blood flowing freely over his palm.

“Damn it, why in the hell did you do that? You’re going to need stitches.”

Sherlock placed his other hand on John’s arm. “No, I won’t. Watch.” After pulling his hand from John’s grip he released John’s arm and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his Belstaff. He used it to wipe the blood from his hand and split second later several small arcs of blue lightning crossed the cuts, healing them almost immediately.

“What in the _hell?_ ”

“See? Fast healing, can’t truly die. Pretty self explanatory.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand again and closely examined where the wounds had been. The skin was smooth and unmarked. John dropped the hand and stepped back, his legs bumping into the chair and he dropped into the seat. As he stared up at Sherlock his eyes were wide and a tumultuous mix of emotion crossed his face.

“So you’re really… Immortal.”

“Yes.”

“So why… Why would you care about whether or not someone else was going to die?”

“Because, John, despite the impression that I try so hard to project that I do not care, and by which you’ve obviously been fooled, I _do_ care about people. Especially those who mean a lot to me.”

“Then why give the impression that you don’t?”

“Because it keeps people away. It keeps them from getting close to me.”

“So you act like a sociopath, high functioning and all, just to protect yourself?”

Sherlock returned to the bed and sat down with a soft sigh. “Yes, but not quite the way you are thinking. I’m _old_ , John. I’ve known a lot of people in my extensive lifetime. At first I did have...friends. Attachments. Losing those attachments, over and over...it hurts. And as much as I try to give the impression that I do not _have_ a heart…”

“It still gets broken.”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Showing more emotion than he ever had before, he slowly met John’s gaze. “I am sorry I caused you pain, John. It was not my intention to even _let_ you get to the point where you would care enough to mourn me, but… Consider yourself a rare individual in that you were able to do so.”

“Lucky me,” John replied, his smile softening his words. “What are you going to do now?”

“Moriarty was not acting alone. He was part of a much larger network, one which most certainly poses a danger to the very fabric of our society. That network needs to be eliminated.”

“And you’re going to do it?” The question was most definitely a challenge. “All by yourself?”

Sherlock’s lips tilted up in a half-smile. “Could be dangerous. In fact, it almost certainly will be.” He glanced around the room. “I appreciate the offer, John, but you’ve got a life here. A place to live where someone won’t be shooting holes in the wall or keeping body parts in the fridge.”

John shrugged. “Boring.”

“And you’ve got a new job, from what I understand. Trauma attending at the local hospital.”

“Still boring.”

“If you came with me you’d never be in one place for long. Serbia one week, perhaps even back in Afghanistan the next. It would be very hectic.”

“And very _not_ boring.”

Sherlock stood and waved a hand towards the door. “Shall we?”

John grinned. “Oh God, yes!”

Sherlock returned the grin as he opened the door and swept through. “Come along, then. The game, Dr. Watson, is _on!”_

  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm sure you've guessed the crossover ;) I would love to know what you think. The second chapter will be posted tomorrow.


End file.
